David Santaleza
In-game knowledge * Used to be a poet before the embrace. Author of celebrated underground collection of poetry "Zodiac in Negative". * Meets Javier Belaño on the island of Korčula during the Praxis summer school of philosophy. Javier asks him to come to Chile. Santaleza accepts, and he spends some years there. * Meets (and falls in love with) Javier's somewhat insane and mysterious friend Cesarea. He writes his second (and to this day unpublished) collection of poetry about his days (well, mostly nights) in Santiago. It is said that the great Chilean author Roberto Bolaño stole his title: "Nocturno de Chile" or "By Night in Chile". * Embraced by Cesarea sometime during the 70's after being shot by Pinochet's regiments. Joins the Anarch cause. * Witnessed the horrors of Pinochet's regime, not to mention the Camarilla, the Sabbat and the Anarchs trying to claim Santiago. Not your typical Toreador, Santaleza enjoys a good scuffle. * After his good friend (and some say part-time lover) Javier Belaño is brutally murdered by the Sabbat in the early 80's he flees the country, travelling to Madrid, Berlin, Hamburg and a dozen of other cities before returning to his hometown of Pula. To say he harbours a grudge against the Sabbat would be putting it lightly, he goes ballistic when confronted with the Sabbat. Not only did they murder Javier, but Cesarea went missing after his death as well. * Disillusioned with the Anarchs in Pula he moves to Rijeka for a couple of years. Finally, bored to death (oh, the irony) he returns to the city of his student days, Zagreb, hoping for a fresh start. * Has an extremely short fuse and is prone to violent mood swings. One Brujah said something like this about him: "And I though we Brujah are the ones with a nasty temper". * Became sponsor to former Anarch Njuška on Halloween. * Made a habit out of writing quasi-limericks about current events. Harpy Rumours ''Fresh hearsay: * ''He seems too eager to please. Turning toward each and every officer of the Camarilla asking for a way to help. Wouldn't you agree that looks a bit brown-noseish even? But then again maybe the best roses do need a bit of that extra fertilizer so that they can grow strong! * Fresh face reinvigorating this roseless city. Bit of a bully, expected more petals, less thorns! Seems as he is afraid of the Harpy, quickly turning to empty pleasantries when he is around. But he is still a rather young one. Old news: * n/a View from Within „ ... and everything carries me to you the clip of the moon in the night sky... Listen to that Neruda wannabe. It's over hombre, he's dead and you can't write like him. Fuck, you can't write for shit. Look at his hackneyed entourage, cheering after every-single-poem. And then there are his little speeches between every-single-poem, making some oblique reference to some people in the audience. Try jabbing me, hermano, and I'll make sure that not only will you not be able to write your execrable poetry, but I'll make sure that you can't even jack off. Shit, there has to be something besides this noise. Something beautiful. People singing. People dancing. The ringing of glasses brought together and the moaning of young women and young men. Some of them beautiful, some of them drunk, some just craving flesh or a body lying next to them. And there we were, outside all this banging and clang and clutter, just sitting and staring and scaring our shadows away. And she says I'm pouting again and she's right. Svelte, beautifully insane, not caring about this picayune horseshit that got me riled up. She grabs my hand and I almost feel warmth, she’s smiling. Let’s go, I say, into the incandescent madness of this adopted city of mine, your city, our nights, and she says ok. '' ''The night, the sultry air, the cars and the shouts from bars. And there we go, hand in hand, like Punch & Judy without the violence. And she asks me what I’m thinking about and just before I answer I sense something strange. We hear an explosion a couple of blocks away. Then gunshots. And then the howling. Those Sabbat cachorros don’t know when to stop, do they? I look at her, she grins. Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war, motherfucker. " ________________________________________________________________________________ Sometime 'round 1999. Bar Miami, in fucking Senpere. This has to be Hell. A seedy joint, with seedy clientele and a fat bartender with a mustache, shit, I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here. Go to Dublin, or maybe back to Valencia, or at least Spain. I look at the Garcias, now more like siblings, nearly identical twins, rather than father and son. Olive skinned, dark-eyed and wild, drinking their cañas. Carlos Rodrigo, the elder, drinking more than he should, the younger one, now looking a bit older, pacing himself carefully. I look back at the TV, the picture all staticky, Athletic Bilbao playing Valencia and normally I’d root for Valencia, but not even I’m crazy enough to cheer for them in fucking Basque country. I hear Carlos Rodrigo ordering another. “Hey, pace yourself, motherfucker. Eh? Why? Nothing going on in this shit village anyway. We’ve done jobs like this hundreds of times.” I sigh, look at Carlos Calixto. “Any news? Nah, not yet. You’d hear the phone.” What I’d give to have a shot and a beer right now. A woman walks by, casually brushing herself against my arm. I look at her; she looks back as she walks by, all coquettish. Just keep walkin’, honey, I’m not buying that shit these days. Even if my dick still were my brain I’d still be smart enough not to engage a beautiful woman in a last chance bar. '' ''The phone rings, Calixto answers, without a word he hangs up. “The parking lot, half an hour”. I nod, why is it always a fucking parking lot or warehouse? “Hola, Carlitos, quit your drinking and go get some water. We’re on in half an hour; I can’t have my marksman tipsy. Si, si, maricón.” Some twenty minutes later we’re there. A parking lot near a warehouse. Our Mustang parked, I lean on the hood, check if I have my pistol ready. Carlos Calixto is in the backseat, polishing his rifle. Carlos Rodrigo starts messing with the radio. I hear songs like Scar Tissue, No Scrubs and he finally settles on Livin’ la Vida Loca, laughing. '' ''“Cut the crap,” I hiss, then mutter “ …hijo de puta”. Headlights up ahead. They park some 20m away from us, get out the car. I begin scanning their auras. Four of them, kine. Wait, four? Motherfuckers, it was supposed to be just the two-'' ''Car engine roaring behind us. “Ambush!”, I manage to shout before the bullets start-a-flying. Everything goes slow, I slide on the hood, several bullets hitting the car. It never fails, I just had the thing waxed and polished. Rodrigo pulls out his two uzis, fucking cowboy, and begins spraying the first car. Landing on my feet, I clearly see the vehicle ahead of me. That’s when I reach for my pistol, aim at the driver’s seat and begin to shoot like a motherfucker. The car swerves and hits a streetlamp, smoke rising. Three figures stagger out, their auras clearly vampiric. Motherfucking Sabbat. Two of them begin to charge us, one pulls out a pistol and shoots. He’s a poor shot, well, probably. '' ''It’s my turn to boogie now. I reload, look ahead. They’re some thirty meters away. I hear Carlos Rodrigo cursing; he slides on the hood and lands near me, bleeding. He got shot in the shoulder, flesh wound. Carlos Calixto is still emptying rounds at the other car. I open the car door, grab my sawed-off shotgun and toss Rodrigo my pistol so he doesn’t have to reload. “Give them a little bit of lead, light the motherfuckers up …”, I say and start firing, hitting one of the charging ones, he goes down as I get ready to rush ‘em back, drawing my machete. Car engines to my back, two of them. '' ''“Calixto, get in the front seat, we gotta vamoose!”, I shout just as the shovelhead approaches, swinging, you’re kidding me, a fuckin’ shovel. I jump back, swing at his throat. The cunt begins bleeding and I begin slashing until the poor bastard drops. A bullet hits me in my thigh, the fleshy part. Bullets start flying from everywhere. I turn around, Carlos Rodrigo is down, clutching his wound, a gutshot. I see several potholes in his chest. Fuck. I pick him up and toss him in the backseat. More shovelheads approaching. And just before I hop in the passenger seat I catch a glimpse of her. Raven hair, coffee eyes. I shake my head and she’s gone. We’re gone. Outta here. '' ''An hour or two before dawn he’s no longer here. Gone. Outta here.